


As We Sleep IV

by Crowgirl



Series: Scars Remind Us [26]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Cuddling, Internal Monologue, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-23
Updated: 2012-01-23
Packaged: 2017-10-30 00:44:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/325906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crowgirl/pseuds/Crowgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ongoing discussion, and ramifications thereof, between Dean and Castiel about the after-effects of Hell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	As We Sleep IV

XXVI.

Castiel pads up the stairs silently, being careful to avoid the inner corner of the third step from the top which creaks loudly when trod upon.

In the morning he and the Winchesters will be leaving on a hunt.

In the library he has just left, Sam and Bobby are arguing over the finer points of tactics when faced with ghouls which seem the likeliest culprits for the murders they will investigate.

Dean had left the three of them working some hours before, not even bothering to announce his withdrawal. His end of the sofa was simply vacant when Cas glanced up from the tome he was translating for Bobby, looking to rest his tired eyes on Dean for a moment.

But there was only a sagging cushion where Dean had been: nothing scruffy and blond and scowling and slightly sullen and lovely to ease Castiel’s eyes.

Castiel reaches the top of the stairs and has to stop to take a breath. His body is not yet healed, although he is aware that he is much better than a human would be. Only the worst of his bruises remain and the jagged cut around his ankle is healing. His voice works but is hoarse and raspy and sometimes gives out on him in the middle of words. Bobby says he sounds like a three-pack-a-day man, whatever that means.

It concerns him that Dean saw fit to vanish without saying where he was going. Dean has kept much to himself over the days since Castiel’s return and Castiel does not understand why.

Nor does he understand why Dean consistently refuses to sleep in the same bed with him. Or, indeed, to touch him at all.

It is not as though Castiel expects a whirlwind of sexual activity; if nothing else, his battered body is scarcely up to the challenge. When he touches Dean in that way, he wants to be sure _all_ his nerves are sound to appreciate the experience.

For now, Castiel knows this body well enough to know he is lucky to be as mobile as he is. In the future -- who knows?

Dean is beautiful.

Castiel has known this for longer than he has had the words to express it. Dean’s presence in a room is enough to cause Castiel distraction: his eyes, his hands, his voice can throw Castiel’s thoughts into complete disarray. But what he wants now is the reassurance of Dean’s solid presence, not the excitement of his touch.

He takes a last breath and keeps on his silent way down towards the bedroom.

* * *

The door is half-closed, a dim light shining out around it, and Castiel pushes the door open gently. One of the bedside lamps is on, enough to illuminate the room.

Out of habit, Castiel glances at the cot Bobby had unearthed at Dean’s insistence. Dean has been adamant in his refusal to occupy the bed while Castiel is ‘hurt.’ This despite Castiel’s continual written and, as soon as his voice began to return, whispered, explanations to the contrary.

Tonight the cot is empty and Dean curled on his side, back to Castiel, on the far side of the bed. There is a book open on the bed beside him, one long-fingered hand loose across the cover. The bedclothes cover him to the waist, but he has the look of someone who lay down ‘just for a minute.’

Castiel closes the door as softly as he can and crosses the room to the bed. Gently, slowly, he lets his weight down onto the side of the bed opposite Dean.

Warm as he always is, Dean has stripped off his shirt and, Castiel is willing to bet, everything except the plain black boxers. The ones Castiel had watched him take from the drawer this morning before Dean realised he was awake.

When Dean had glanced over and seen Castiel watching him, for just a second Castiel’s breath had caught in his throat because he thought Dean was going to move so he could see him better -- perhaps step out of the shadow. The light in those green eyes had sparked bright for a second -- and then gone dark, Dean’s face shuttering.

The light from the lamp gilds Dean’s hair now, rough against the pillow, and Castiel’s fingertips itch to touch the skin over his shoulderblades. There is a faint scattering of freckles over Dean’s shoulders and Castiel wants to know if they feel different from the rest of Dean -- different from his hands, for example, which can move so slowly and carefully despite the gun-calluses. He curls his fingers into his palm, knowing the touch would wake Dean and he would probably then insist on moving back to the cot and abandoning Castiel to the cold sheets.

The best thing the angel can do, then, is prepare himself for bed as quickly as he can and hope he does nothing loud enough to wake the sleeping man.

Quickly and quietly, he lets the jeans, borrowed from Bobby’s emergency stash of clothing, slide down around his ankles, taking his socks with them. He keeps his t-shirt on. He glances at the bedside lamp and it obediently turns itself off, leaving the room shrouded in darkness except for a faint glow from the southernmost window nearest to where the moon is rising.

As slowly as if Dean were a creature to stalk, Castiel lifts the sheet and blankets and slides underneath. He reaches slowly and carefully over Dean to pick up the book -- another one of the _Supernatural_ novels. As he moves, Dean takes a deep breath and mutters something, mostly into the pillow. Castiel freezes but, when Dean stills and his breathing returns to normal, he slips the book quietly onto the bedside table and slides the rest of the way under the covers.

For a long moment or two -- long enough for Castiel to feel how tired he is, an odd feeling -- he stays still. He can feel the covers rise and fall a little with Dean’s breathing and his own, and smell the faint saltiness of Dean’s skin, so unlike his own. When Dean makes no further move, Castiel slides closer, but does not dare get too close. He contents himself with a hand on Dean’s hip, just above the waist of his boxers. The lower edge of his hand touches the rough cotton of the boxers, the rest of his hand is on smooth, warm skin. He can feel bone and the contraction and relaxation as Dean breathes.

Castiel finally lets his head rest on the pillow, careful not to be where his breath might tickle the back of Dean’s neck and wake him. The palm of his hand fits the curve of Dean’s hip perfectly, he thinks, and he wishes Dean would welcome Castiel pulling him closer.

Castiel closes his eyes and counsels himself to patience.

The wounds -- the newest ones -- in Dean’s mind and body are still raw. He knows the younger man wants to push himself, wants to ignore what his body tells him and pretend that nothing is wrong. And for some reason that Castiel does not understand, Dean worries Castiel’s attention will drift or wander or be completely lost to him if he does not recover his taste for sex as quickly as possible. As if sex were all Castiel would want from him!

As long as Castiel gets a say in the matter, he will not let Dean harm himself further.

Waiting is one of Castiel’s best skills.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Anthem of the Angels," Breaking Benjamin, _Dear Agony._


End file.
